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The Highest Distinction

“You are the only person I know that has handled this much of their own urine. I’m not sure whether to be impressed with your perseverance with this or be repulsed by the fact that you stored your own urine in your fridge [twice] hahahaha then again, what do I know [?] I have a dead fox in my parents freezer.”

This is a direct quote from Sula’s most recent email to me. She’s off in the frigid north without a phone, electricity or running water again. I think it’s secretly her dream to wake up in the stone ages and clunk a brontosaurus on the head for breakfast.

Now before anyone goes jumping to conclusions about what the two of us like to do in our spare time, I should explain that I’m being tested for a rare type of porphyria. For those who have no idea what porphyria is, you clearly need to read more of the National Enquirer. At one point they loved doing articles on vampire children who blister in the sun and live under cloaks and who can only play in darkness with bats and owls.

I might be exaggerating. But it is a real condition. Tex thinks I have it based on the fact that I got a ripping red burn from sitting next to a window at the farmhouse. In my skin’s defense it was a big window.

Tex : “Somethings wrong; those are double-pane, tinted windows.”

Unwashed : “It’s fine, it’s just my skin.It’s my fault; I should have been wearing sunscreen if we were going to open the curtains.”

This was how I found myself collecting, decanting and the refrigerating my own urine for 48 hours. It was supposed to be for only 24 hours, but the first time I collected the sample, the lab forgot to tell me that I had to protect my urine from light. (Apparently my pee gets sunburned too?)

It might make a good birthday gift for an enemy. How’s my wrapping job?

Which was why I spent part of Saturday morning wrapping a container in tin foil and trying to decide whether this was the world’s grossest gift or the worst arts and craft project ever. Regardless, I don’t think Martha Stewart would ever have deemed it “a good thing”.

My beloved, modern comfort hating friend, Sula found the whole story to be hilarious and disgusting. Apparently she draws the line at storing bodily excretions in the fridge but dead woodland creatures are acceptable. The only reason I can think of is because you can eat one but are immediately unpopular if you consume the other (I won’t even try to imagine the halitosis one would have after drinking a day’s worth of urine).

Nevertheless, I now have earned the distinction of being the person who has handled more of their own pee than anyone in Sula’s social circle, which is saying something because her boyfriend once made her an Arctic porta-john out of scrap metal, a chair with a shotgun hole blasted in it and reindeer antlers. Clearly I’m in with the in-crowd.